


The Forest

by VerdantVulpus



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Baby survives, Birth, Birth complications, Cesarean Section, Hopeful Ending, Traumatic birth, breastfeeding issues, failure to thrive, mom survives, post-natal depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:48:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29490834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantVulpus/pseuds/VerdantVulpus
Summary: A work of prose written by a new mother coming to grips with her new reality after a traumatic birth.It isn't pretty, but it might be relatable. At the very least to show how we are not alone in our suffering.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	The Forest

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't a very pretty piece. I'm not a poet, and this was written when I was sleep deprived and hopped up on hormones and stress. I'm posting it two years later because it still speaks to me and might speak to others.
> 
> It isn't edited much from the original (except for correcting spelling and making the structure a bit easier to read) because I wanted to keep it as rough and raw and I was feeling at the time. Birth is not a polished thing.

The forest is pretty dark right now.

It has been a little over three weeks since my boy was cut from me. When the doctor said “cesarian” I was ready. It wasn’t what I wanted, but I hadn’t wanted the rounds of antibiotics every four hours for two days. I hadn’t wanted to walk the halls hooked into an IV praying for contractions that would never come. I hadn’t wanted to spend three days in the hospital, some of it alone listening to other women deliver their babies, hearing their baby’s first cries, and in the case of one heartbreaking moment, have that followed with a code pink. 

I hadn’t wanted it, but I was ready. In ten minutes my baby was taken from my belly and delivered into my arms.

Then I had what I wanted.

I thought I was ready for the forest, or as ready as any parent ever is, but I didn’t know what it would look like. I knew there would be bleeding and pain and sleeplessness, but didn’t expect the weeping incision, the massive swelling of my abdomen, legs, and feet. 

I knew breastfeeding might take time, might be delayed, might be painful, but I didn’t know what that would look like. The doctor saying “ _ Failure To Thrive _ ” and it feeling like deep, personal failure. The shame and fear. 

We spent another three days in the hospital, feeding and pumping every three hours, alone. The bed was hard. The nurses were kind and accommodating but I was no longer a patient. They were tending to my son because I could not  _ feed  _ him. Another thing was cut from me.

When SNS proved too time consuming and difficult, we moved to bottle feeding. I pump and save my milk, but I still don’t make enough to satisfy his needs. He gets one feed of milk a day and the rest is formula. He is  _ thriving  _ now. He is being  _ fed _ . He is  _ safe  _ and there is only the memory of the cries that I thought were gas but were in fact  _ hunger _ . 

The shame and guilt remain.

The swelling starts to go down and in its place is a rash akin to poison ivy and stinging nettle. It covers my legs and feet and I can’t stop scratching it. The doctor gives me a topical steroid because I am trying to breastfeed. It doesn’t work. The rash spreads to my arms.

Last night I didn’t sleep because I couldn’t stand having the bed touch me. I can’t wear clothes. Anything that touches me makes my skin ignite. The house is cold, and I am shivering constantly. The only thing that helps at all is cold, 

but I want to be warm. 

My husband puts frozen towels on my legs as I sob and shake. The blanket loosely draped over my torso burns my arms. My forest is the frozen north, complete with wolves and killing wind. At night, especially this night, I’m not sure I’ll survive it.

Back at the doctor, I tell them I’m ready to give up breastfeeding now if it means I can take something to stop my suffering. 

Another thing is cut from me.

The nurse practitioner asks about my mood; have I had thoughts of harming myself or the baby? “Not the baby”, I tell them. They make concerned noises. That’s their job. I try to explain that I’m not depressed. I don’t  _ want  _ to die. But I’m in distress. My skin is a frozen brand, and my belly is healing inside and out, but it all feels too slow. My fingernails are infected and I don’t know if that is from my scratching or is simply some new exciting way I’m falling apart. 

I don’t want to die. I just want the suffering to stop.

I go back the next week to revisit my rash, and talk about antidepressants again. I think I’ll need them after all. A flickering flame to curl into against the icy wind.

This is my forest right now. It is dark and seeped in feelings of failure and loss. But I’m not alone in the forest. 

My partner has been incredible. My community has been a light, and this beautiful boy… I cannot speak words profound enough for what he means to me. The moment his tight red face relaxes when I pick him up for a cuddle. How his little pink mouth changes from a scream to a soft “oh”. That feeling gives me so much warmth in this frozen wilderness. The icicles on the pines and cedars thaw just a bit and the sun starts to shine through the clouds a little more every day.

So much is cut away from me. So much is given back. This is so hard. This is so beautiful. This is so much.


End file.
